


Rattling Beskar

by saveupyourhopes



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Mando, F/M, Mando takes the strap, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Star Wars References, Top Cara Dune, Top!Cara, Vaginal Fingering, shocktrooper's delight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes
Summary: A Mandalorian and an ex-shock trooper walk into a cantina.
Relationships: Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 343





	Rattling Beskar

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at blowing off Mandalorian-induced flaming hot steam. ♡

“So, just let me get this straight,” Cara drawls, slouched in the pilot’s seat, her sturdy legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle on the control panel. “Eating, washing… making love?”

The Mandalorian grunts. He’s sitting in the cockpit floor, one knee up with an arm draped over it, the other leg stretched out. He tips his visor up to look at her, tilting his head to the side. She certainly isn’t ashamed of prying for information, even if Din is ashamed to give it.

“Too much?” Cara asks, wrinkling her nose.

“Too much,” he answers.

“Oh, come on.” She takes her feet off the control panel and twirls the pilot’s seat around to look down at him, leaning her weight into her elbows on her knees, fixing the bounty hunter with an imploring look. “You’ve got to give me something. Anything!”

“You’re nosy,” he says, and pushes himself up from the floor. He swats her shoulder with the back of a plated glove. “Move. My turn.”

He has a few inches on her as height goes, but standing next to her feels like standing next to someone his equal in height and strength, both. Their sparring matches have proved to him that the shock trooper is solid as stone, and difficult to get a leg over if he’s not quick enough. She’s formidable. That’s what he likes about her.

For a moment, as they trade places, they’re standing chest to chest, and Cara quirks a dark eyebrow at him. She looks him directly in the eye without knowing where they lie behind the visor. Apropos of nothing, the Mandalorian steals a peek over his shoulder at the hovering pram where the Child usually sleeps.

Finally, Cara moves, taking Din’s vacated spot on the floor while he takes over the control panel from the pilot’s seat. They’re adrift in silence on the way to Tattooine, where the Child is safe with Peli. Din rests his head against the seat, folding his hands in his lap. Cara falls silent.

“So,” she says, not quite an hour later, and not to Din’s surprise, really. He hears her shifting her legs, stretching them out. “No one alive has seen your actual face,” she recounts, looking up to the Mandalorian, who doesn’t look back. He doesn’t answer, either, and she takes that as a ‘yes’.

“Just so you know, I’m not needling for you to take off the helmet,” she clarifies. This does surprise the Mandalorian; he turns his head, looks at her in silence, waiting for her to say more. “I’m just looking for a way around. That’s all.”

“Around what?”

Cara grins and there’s something predatory about it—Din can’t put his finger on it. It’s just the nature of her. “I’ll show you,” she says. “When we get to Mos Eisley. It’s a surprise.”

Din stirs in the pilot’s seat, looking away from Cara and out to the vastness of space before the Razor Crest.

  
******  
  


The spaceport town is bustling, as ever, when they arrive. Cara saunters down the entry ramp and the Mandalorian follows not far behind. The hydraulics hiss as the hatch closes behind them, and Din closes a few long strides between him and Cara.

“Let’s run down the itinerary,” Cara says, gearing for something, but Din doesn’t know what.

“Refuel, resupply, get the kid from Peli.”

“And?”

Din turns his head and looks at Cara as they walk. “And?”

“Before all that. We need to make a stop at the cantina.”

“The cantina,” Din grunts through the helmet’s modulator. “If you’re hungry, we can — ”

“I’m starving,” she says with heavy emphasis, “but not in the way you’re thinking.”

The Mandalorian’s stride hitches. A passing Jawa rams into his left arm and slows him down. He barely notices. He thinks he knows what she means, but he can’t be sure—as with anything to do with Cara. He only ever knows how her mind works when they’re together as a team. When they’re sparring? When they’re debating, or when they’re head to head in Dejarik? Master strategist that he is, Din still can’t read her mind. He doesn’t want to wear himself out trying, either.

Cara gains a few paces, saying nothing, always with that unreadable smirk on her face. She leads them through the hustling crowd to the cantina, slipping inside with Din following without question. Laying her credits down on the bartop before the Nimbanel publican, the Mandalorian hears her ask after lodging. He hands her a chip and gestures to a heavy curtain toward the back of the cantina. Din feels eyes on him as he follows her; beneath his helmet, his face heats, and like most instances when Cara Dune is involved, he can’t figure out why.

“What are you doing?” he asks, once they’re squared away in a room of close quarters.

“I’m gonna help you let go of some of that tension,” she answers, pulling off her gloves.

“How?” The modulator breaks with static.

Cara laughs. The light in her eyes dances with it and she puts both hands on the Mandalorian’s plate-covered shoulders, looking into the blankness of his visor. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“I do, but,” Din’s voice trails into silence.

“But?”

“Cara,” he begins, trying to soften his voice. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. He’ll be able to let her down easily if he’s just gentle about it. “If you want me to make love to you, I’m sorry, but I — ”

A half-beat of silence passes and Cara is all but roaring with laughter. Din’s face heats beneath his visor again and he straightens his shoulders to deflect the embarrassment. He gruffly demands: “What?”

“I haven’t been clear with you. I’m sorry,” she says, panting with laughter, wiping her eyes. She places both hands on the Mandalorian’s chest. “Twi’lek men enjoy superb health with quite a lot to do with their practices in bed.”

Din stares at her through the dark visor, hands hanging lamely by his sides. Cara reaches down, twirls their fingers together, and the sensation prickles at his skin from his hands to his shoulders. She’s so close to him that her wry mouth is nearly brushing the faceplate of his helm when she speaks.

“All you’ll have to do is relax and let me take the wheel. I’ll show you the rest. Everything you need to know.”

Din says nothing. Cara tips her head, eyebrows perking up as if in question. The Mandalorian clears his throat. “I’m not sure we’ll have time.”

“We have plenty of time,” Cara says, dragging a fingertip from the apex of his cuirass to his navel in a slow, deliberate path. “The kid’s safe with Peli.” Her voice dips low. “And you know I can finish a job in record time.”

Din swallows, his throat flexing under the duraweave cowl.

“I just wanna rattle some beskar. And help you let go of a little tension.” Laying her hand flat against the bounty hunter’s chest, she gives the breastplate a hardy thump and heads back into the cantina. “Give me an hour. Tops.”

She disappears through the hatch and into the cramped corridor separating the cluster of rooms from the rest of the cantina. Stupefied, the Mandalorian drops his weight onto the edge of the bed, leaning his elbows into his knees. He wrings his leather-gloved hands. There’s nothing productive to do for an hour but to leave the room and come back with a tankard of fungolager, pouring himself a mug.

For an hour—or not quite an hour—Din paced the room, pausing occasionally to sip the bittersweet lager. He knows what’s coming, but doesn’t know, exactly, what it entails. Just that Cara’s enthusiasm for it has his belly turning over inside with nerves, so terribly that when she re-enters the room, Din startles, getting to his feet from his place on the edge of the bed.

She’s holding a box draped in a sash of black and grinning as if she’s come out of some negotiation triumphant. “Here we are,” she says, unveiling the sleek wooden box. It’s not very long, and not very thick. She sets it on the foot of the bed and looks at Din, who’s standing there as if there’s nothing better to do, no other way to displace his anxiety.

“Are you alright?” she asks. Din’s visor tips in a little nod. “With all of this,” Cara adds. The Mandalorian’s visor tips down a little lower while her hands work slowly on the buckles of her armor. She lifts her cuirass and sets it gently on the chest by the foot of the bed.

“If I wasn’t, we wouldn’t be standing here.” Din’s voice feels thin and without substance, not half as firm as he’d intended it to sound. Cara pulls off her under-armor shirt and fixes the straps of the leather bra underneath.

“Good. Don’t be afraid to stop me.”

“I’m not afraid,” Din answers, unsure of why or how he’d become so suddenly stubborn. He’s not sure if Cara can tell that his eyes have dipped more than once to the generous curve of her breasts, the bountiful swell of them tanned and smooth. She must know—she grins at him like a predator and steps toward him, reaching for his hands. Cara grips the fingers of the Mandalorian’s gloves and tugs them off, one after the other, tossing them on the bed.

At first, it’s uncomfortable. Even his hands have been hidden, for the most part, from the eyes of others. But he trusts Cara and now she’s holding his hands as if they’re delicate things and not the tough, scarred instruments that they are. Golden-skinned and knuckle-scarred. Strong and sure and callused. She draws one of his hands up along the swell of her chest and, naturally, Din allows the other to follow.

The helm’s modulator does nothing to hide a trembling sigh. Cara reaches up and grips the lower rim of the helmet and pulls him gently forward, butts her forehead affectionately against the faceplate—she might have kissed him, Din thinks, and even with his mouth quivering with nerves and soft, he would have let her.

He slides the sandpaper palm of his hand up around the back of Cara’s neck and squeezes. She stands before him with such confidence, allows him to feast of her body with his eyes, with his hands, though they’re timid to go terribly far. Her hands move again, unbuckle and drop her utility belts, kicking them aside with a boot.

“Sit down,” she tells him. He does. He pushes himself back onto the bed and glances warily at the box at the foot before his gaze drifts back to Cara, standing before him. His fingers twitch—his hands ache for another touch, for the smoothness of her skin juxtaposed with the hot roughness of his.

She bends with elegance, doesn’t block his gaze from drinking a fill of the sight of her breasts cupped precariously in her bra—invites it. Deft fingers unbuckle her boots, push the shafts down to be kicked off and pushed to the side so that her breeches can follow and soon, Cara is all but naked before the Mandalorian, little but the leather of her bra to preserve any sort of decency, as if she cares.

She clears the pace between the two of them and steps between the bounty hunter’s knees. He cranes his neck to look up at her, his hands resting on his knees, fingers gripping the muscle of his thighs. She laughs—probably, he guesses, because he’s so tense. Straight-backed and holding onto himself as if his life depends on it.

“Use your hands, Mando,” she says, giving the Mandalorian’s left shoulder a shove. He’s watching her, tilting his head a fraction, when he draws a hand up the inside of her thigh, urging her to part them. He knows the calluses of his own fingertips, but when he drags his middle and forefingers through the slick seam of her cunt, finding the hooded bud of her clit, her eyes flutter, chin tilting up, head tipping back. She clenches her jaw and draws a breath through her teeth and encourages him, “That’s it.”

Encouraged, Din shifts closer to the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving her face. He anchors his opposite hand in the muscle of Cara’s hip, holds her. Cara shifts a knee up onto the edge of the bed, both hands braced to the bounty hunter’s shoulders, and in time with the shift of her body, Din sinks those sturdy fingers deep into her, curving them forward.

She sucks in another breath. Cups her hands around the back of his neck, fingers nestled in the creases of his cowl. He trusts her—she won’t take his helmet. She wouldn’t dream of disarming him. He knows this.

His fingers beckon, slow and rhythmic, the ropey muscles of his forearm working underneath his vambrace. Cara’s head falls back, exposes the long, tanned length of her throat, and Din’s arm slides around her waist, pulls her close to his chest. He sits up straighter to bury the cool beskar steel of his faceplate against her neck, wanting to inhale the scent of her, feel the heat of her on his cheek, his forehead. He’s only allowed the lukewarmth of his own body heat but he’s able to imagine that it belongs to her.

Cara doesn’t stop him, doesn’t ask him to slow when she bends over his lap to take the box into her hands. The box opens on a delicate golden hinge. Din, reluctant to look away from Cara, reluctant to take his attention from the business at hand, peers at the contents of the box.

Lined in black velvet, the contents lay in mindfully carved nests: a glass vial of deep blue liquid, and a phallic object, mottled tortoiseshell polished to a high sheen. Cara’s hands produce the phallus first, setting the box aside. It looks elegant in her bare hands; she touches it with such care that Din can’t help but watch her in admiration as she looks upon it as if only just becoming familiar with it.

It’s an object meant for shared pleasure, with a curved protrusion on one end roughly the size of Din’s coupled fingers, and a knobbly little cup above it. Seeing it, Cara lights up. She widens her legs apart and shoves at the Mandalorian’s wrist; he eases his fingers from the heat of her body, woefully, and watches her. She picks up the vial of liquid and says, “Here,” holding the vial out to Din. Obediently he pulls the stopper, his arm still wrapped around Cara’s low-back, and she dispenses the oil onto the curved protrusion, and some into the little nibbed cup.

She lifts her knee and braces her foot into the mattress. The Mandalorian swallows, a wet sound through his modulator, at the indecent view he gets when she slides the phallic object down over her clit and back—the finger-like protrusion disappears into the snug, velvet heat that Din now knows, craves. Cara nestles the phallus so that the cup suckles gently around her clit and smiles down at Din, cat got the cream.

It must be the sight of her with her gleaming, elegant cock in place that causes Din’s brain to work around the situation, at last. “Oh,” he manages, looking up at Cara who’s slicking her fist in oil and stepping back from the bed. She strokes the sleek tortoiseshell cock as if it’s the most natural thing she’s ever done with her hands, and the Mandalorian’s own hands brace at his sides, gripping bedsheets.

“Oh, yes,” she says, her eyes dark. His mouth has gone dry and for the first time, he notices how hard he is, hard enough to ache, his restraint enough, at least, to keep his hands from shoving down his breeches and taking his cock into his fist.

But that isn’t quite enough for Cara who, with her renewed demeanor of control, dominance, reaches down with her dry hand and cups him underneath his clothing. The bounty hunter’s legs twitch, fingers flexing into the bedsheets, and the helmet does little to hide the sound of his gasping, panting, as she squeezes, strokes him for good measure. He presses his hips up into her grasp and she pulls away, stroking her cock.

“Turn over. Would you?” Cara asks, and eager despite his brief reluctance, Din stands and turns, presses his knees to the edge of the bed, feels Cara’s hand at the center of his back, warm and sure. “Bend,” she says.

Tentatively, the bounty hunter does as he’s told. He presses his bare hands to the bed and stiffly crawls forward, bending down. It’s not enough—it must not be, for Cara shoves her bare foot between his boots and kicks his feet apart, a movement so sudden that he has to brace himself against the bed. He turns to look at her through the sliver of his T-visor on that side and lowers himself carefully down to his elbows.

“You don’t have to be so bossy,” Din says, breath hitching in his throat when he feels Cara’s warm hands curling into his utility belt and working his breeches down his hips. He feels cool air hit his newly bared skin and shifts, uncomfortable until her hands smooth over the warm flesh of his lower back, rucking up his cloak until it drapes over his waist.

“There’s a Jawa calling an Ewok short,” she snorts dryly in return.

It feels strange to be bared this way—embarrassing, almost—but Cara makes a low, long sound of approval, like she’s feasting on the sight of him. His face heats beneath the helm. His fingers curl into fists in the bedsheets.

Her fingers are slick when she touches at him, petting at the tense knot of muscle before she’s pushing a single finger inside him up to the first knuckle. He can’t relax. An inch of Cara’s finger and he’s pressing his faceplate to the bed with a sigh, his hips going still.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” she says, amusement dancing around the edges of her tone. The Mandalorian snorts. Cara takes his moment of abandon to slide her oiled finger into his body and curl it downward—“Your mate will howl with pleasure,” the Twi’lek woman had told him in the midst of their transaction.

Whatever she does to him—whatever she’s doing with her finger, there’s no breathing about it. The choked sound that slips past the helm’s modulator gets rewarded with Cara’s musical laughter and Din turns his head, his faceplate rasping against the bedclothes.

There’s pressure inside, and heat. The oil is slick and getting slicker, hot and getting hotter, such that he wonders what sort of Twi’lek witchery Cara has purchased. He doesn’t realize she’s added a second finger until she presses down into his body again and it sends a jolt of sensation up through his spine, white-hot. She kneads circles against his insides, the pleasure so intense that Din finds himself laying flat against the bed, canting up his hips, utterly at her mercy and groaning helplessly into a fistful of bedclothes.

“Oh, you’re moaning like a common whore,” Cara croons playfully, letting up and easing her slippery fingers out of him, thrusting them back inside, rhythmic. It’s easier than Din would imagine, his body giving without needing permission, no effort required to relax himself and let her in. She takes hold of a fistful of his cape and holds him in place, taking no argument—but then, he offers none.

The bounty hunter feels Cara’s weight press into him, and slick heat press against him. He breathes through it, closing his eyes, dizzy with the ghost of sensation inside, still thrumming and sensitive. He feels her sinking into him, the phallus warm with oil, thick enough to fill him as Cara bottoms out with it, groaning as if she can feel it. Shared pleasure, he thinks again, biting into the softness of his bottom lip.

She’s leaning into him now, letting him adjust to the feel of it, an intrusion. He’s breathing her name and doesn’t realize it, his grip white-knuckled in the bedcover. She soothes him like an animal, hands mapping out the muscle of his flank, devouring him. When she pulls out, Din feels a swell against that tender spot and his body tightens, all of him tense in response, as Cara puts her weight behind a single thrust, driving smoothly into him.

He arches up his hips. Feels her hand sneaking around, bypassing his utility belt and pushing inside, grasping for his cock. He’s hard enough to ache, sighing with relief at the sensation alone, his bare hand resting itself on her wrist. He widens his stance the littlest bit more, pushes back against her to be rewarded with a surprised little sound and an unexpected strike of her palm to his rear. His body jolts and Cara follows without losing so much as an inch.

“Get back here,” she says, fingers digging into the meat of the bounty hunter’s hips to hold him in place. “If I can’t rely on you to stay put, you’ll have to take care of your own cock.”

Cara fucks him in earnest, after that, full, steady strokes of her cock inside him. He fumbles to take himself in a trembling hand, anchored to the bed with the other, unconcerned with the wide spread of his legs, the way his hips are arched up for her, offered. Distantly, foggily, he wonders what it must feel like to her and knowing that part of the fake cock is curled up, nestled into Cara’s heat, has his cock pulsing into his bare hand. He pushes himself up with the other and presses against her thrusts. This delights her; she’s laughing, or moaning, some animalistic, indecent amalgamation of the two.

He wants to see her. Desperately, he wants to drink in the sight of her, the muscles of her arms stiff with how she’s holding him; her steady shoulders; her abdominal muscles tensed as she fucks him. The Mandalorian’s boots scrabble at the slatted floor as he takes her, fist working the slick head of his cock in time with her thrusts—growing quicker, now, and deeper. Every pull hits something tender inside him, draws an animal sound from him.

Cara’s right hand travels up over the hills and valleys of his cape, over the wrinkles of his duraweave cowl. She puts a vice-like grip onto the back of his neck and drives deep into him and Din comes into his fist without warning, legs going tense, visor hidden against the bedcover, muffling a gruff, animal sound. Cara’s hips snap against him, grinding in tight circles; he reaches back, scrabbles for purchase on her hip to encourage her, goading her thrusts. Then she’s coming, too, with her head tossed back and the hard planes of her belly tensing, fingers digging hard into Din’s neck and hip. She grinds and grinds, riding the stimulator inside of her, clit slipping against little nubs that cause her to shiver.

When it’s too much, Cara stops. Din’s legs grow weak, shuddering underneath him, threatening to give way. His tender cock has had enough; he pulls his hand away and wipes it on the bedcover. Holds himself up until Cara laughs and drapes her body over his back, pushing him down to the mattress. He grunts; he laughs, too.

“Gonna be a bruise,” he says of the back of his neck, which aches even after Cara takes her hand off of him.

“Good,” she says, her hands brushing up and down his sides, tender. It tickles; he twitches, huffing out a laugh, but it’s good. He’s cared-for. He’s warm inside and the ache in the back of his neck is pleasant. “So you’ll think about doing this again.”

After taking a few long moments to recuperate, Cara pushes herself up, hands braced to the Mandalorian’s back. He grunts as if she’s pushing the air out of his lungs. She eases the tortoiseshell cock out of him and before he can make himself comfortable on the bed, Cara grabs him by the belt, hauls up his breeches and pulls him to his feet.

“No time for that,” she says. She seems refreshed, smiling as if it’s so, but for Din’s part, he’s exhausted. He’d rather sleep; Peli can watch the Child for a few hours longer. But Cara is already pulling on her armor, buckling her cuirass and her utility belts. She cleans the phallus and places it and the vial of oil gently away in their box.

“You’re a menace,” Din complains. He aches, but sweetly.

“You’ll have plenty of time to sleep. Later.”

Where Cara seems as perfectly put-together as she always does, Din feels disheveled. He picks up his gloves and pulls them back on, one by one. Even with his helmet in place, the Mandalorian is all too aware of his hot face, how flushed it must be; how there’s sweat in his hair and sticking to his skin.

He’s slow to follow Cara, who seems to be in a hurry to get him out the door. She pauses before she opens the curtain to lead them into the cantina, though, and turns. Faces him, and grips the rim of his helmet. Cara pulls him in; Din drifts forward, unwilling to resist, and finds himself with Cara’s forehead pressed affectionately to his faceplate.

He breathes out; his shoulders relax. Gloved hands cradling each side of her face, the Mandalorian smiles under the helm.

“You’re the menace,” she says, softly.

Din turns his head so that the forehead of his faceplate rolls gently against hers. “Hasn’t stopped you yet. Let’s go,” he says, moving past Cara with renewed vigor, knowing she’ll follow.


End file.
